


Life in the First-Degree

by chucks_prophet



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Anger Management, Benny Lafitte & Dean Winchester Friendship, Boys fighting, But also some humor, Castiel is a Sweetheart, Castiel/Dean Winchester First Time, Counselor Chuck, Criminal Dean, Dean is a Softie, Ex-prisoner Dean, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, Fighting, Gen, Gratuitous Smut, Halfway House, Heavy Angst, Hopeful Ending, I try to get a little bit of everything, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Intimacy, M/M, Nudity, Nurse Castiel, References to Drugs, Rehabilitation, anger issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-29
Updated: 2017-05-29
Packaged: 2018-11-06 06:31:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,598
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11030577
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chucks_prophet/pseuds/chucks_prophet
Summary: "My name is Dean Winchester, I'm an Aquarius. I enjoy sunsets, long walks on the beach, and frisky women. And I didn’t kill anyone." Dean pauses. He's certain the camera catches the twitch in his lip. It could be the stuffiness in the room, between the pompous blue collars that've strutted in and out and the exhausted AC, but Dean gets a strange high off it. "But I'll tell you one thing—God's honest truth, that's what they'll have me swear in court soon anyway, right? So you may as well get an E! Exclusive before I get shipped to my next press junction: That bastard's lucky he's still alive. If you guys hadn't come when you did, he might be dead."





	1. Love in the First-Degree

**Author's Note:**

> I wasn't sure on the tagging, so to clarify, I tagged rape/non-con as a trigger warning just in case, since there's no graphic detail, it's just mentioned a couple times throughout the story. But because Dean has strong feelings about it, and it's an important issue to the story and to society in general, it's brought up. But no actual scene in this revolves around it.
> 
> Anywho, I know this is a bit edgier than my usual fluffy fics, but I wanted to try something different. Challenge myself as a writer. I've done my research into halfway houses, so if anything is inaccurate, please let me know. And remember, this is a work of fiction. I do my best. <3
> 
> Thank you to my best friend, who's passion lies in true crime (see what I did there?) and also answering any questions I had regarding prison and rehabilitation. 
> 
> Also, I am SO proud of myself for coming this far with this fic! I usually only do short little one-shots, but 6k????? And that's only a little over half the story so far!

 

**5 Years Ago**

"My name is Dean Winchester, I'm an Aquarius. I enjoy sunsets, long walks on the beach, and frisky women. And I didn’t kill anyone." Dean pauses. He's certain the camera catches the twitch in his lip. It could be the stuffiness in the room, between the pompous blue collars that've strutted in and out and the exhausted AC, but Dean gets a strange high off it. "But I'll tell you one thing—God's honest truth, that's what they'll have me swear in court soon anyway, right? So you may as well get an E! Exclusive before I get shipped to my next press junction: That bastard's lucky he's still alive. If you guys hadn't come when you did, he might be dead.

"He raped my cousin. Jo Harvelle. I'm stating her name for the record so it doesn't get thrown away with all the other 'intoxicated and irresponsible' college girls who were just asking for it.

"By the way, she was wearing plaid. Long sleeves, buttoned up over a Boston shirt and blue jeans, and a pair of Doc Martens. But maybe her shoelace shouldn't have been untied.

"Anyway, now I'm in for aggravated assault. Now I pose the question to the guys behind the safety glass: What're _you_ in for?"

**Now**

"Okay, who used the last of my toothpaste?" Dean accuses from across the hall. Everyone living under the Victorian house that has more mileage than it does square footage has been accused of something at some point in their lives, including him, so it's not like Dean's being too harsh. "Victor? Is this a new thing for you? Flouride? At least invest in a decent flavor. Mint is fucking disgusting."

Gordon's door cracks open on the other side of the hall, streaming sunlight through the dimly-lit hallway like a giant pair of vertical headlights. He's dawning nothing more than boxers, a thin red t-shirt, and the crusts in his eyes that he's rubbing away. "Mmmph, what're you griping about this early this time?"

"It's eleven in the morning."

"Yeah, exactly," Gordon scoffs, balancing himself with one arm against the door, "it's _morning_."

Dean used to work in construction. He remembers spitting up sawdust that was supposed to fall on his chest. So, he shakes his head as he grabs ahold of the doorknob again to avoid spitting anything out that he might regret that should be better kept inside—like the idea of calling Gordon a vampire because of his sleeping schedule. It's probably not the worst he's been called by his two kids, who he’s stolen money from. Dean's overheard them during visitation day.

"What's Norman Bates going on about now?" comes Adam's voice from the adjacent room.

Soon, everyone from every room is chiming in:

"Scouting for his next victim."

"It ain't me. I didn't touch his mom."

"Isn't it his cousin?"

"He fools around with his cousin?"

"Nah, someone _fooled_ around with his cousin, past tense. Now he's taking it out on—"

The many-man diatribe is interrupted by the sound of someone—someone with a ratty old pair of blue Converse, in particular—ascending the stairs. Dean steps back into the bathroom, the door slightly ajar as he pretends to brush his teeth with what little toothpaste he has, squeezed from fingers still scarred around the knuckles.  It's an emblem he wears with pride. If sacrificing a little skin means redemption for someone else, he'll gladly become Two Face.

The door pushes open just a little more. "Hi, Dean."

Dean looks up into the mirror after spitting into the age-worn sink. "Chuck."

"Check-in is in twenty," he says, pushing up his large-framed glasses that make him look like a Kryptonite-plagued Superman, with his partly-combed back brown hair and thick beard—if Superman’s an ex-alcoholic, that is, "I expect good things."

"Yeah. Yeah, I'll be down in a few," Dean reassures, washing out the sink to give himself noise over the persistent rattling of the AC. "Can I make a milk run afterwards? I'll be quick, I just need more toothpaste. I know Benny usually does the shopping, but—”

"He's working on the shed," Chuck finishes. "I don't see why not. Just make sure to sign out."

 

 

Dean closes the patio door and steps out into the backyard.

Most of it is a wasteland, to be frank. Dead grass, dead trees, even dead _weeds._ But it’s quiet, save for the power drill nagging away at stubborn screws. Dean only knows they’re stubborn from the few Cajun-accented curse words that taint said quietness.

Dean laughs, moving over the grass and towards the shed in the making, “Did you hate groceries _that_ much?”

Benny shakes his head with as much a laugh as he can muster. It doesn’t use up a lot to set up a mini metal box except a lot of patience. “I needed that,” he says half-windedly as he sets the drill down to pull out the chair next to him. For a moment, neither men say anything, but it’s a comfortable silence.

Dean and Benny have been friends for a while since they’ve cohabited in the halfway house. It would’ve been longer had they not completely loathed each other at first sight. Benny saw Dean has a psychopath without a license to kill and Dean thought Benny was a druggie too sedated by his addiction to even throw a decent punch (although, he told Dean this story once about how he tried to take a bite out of a guy’s neck once, so “rip your throat out” was taken to a whole new comeback level, and he stands corrected).

“My offer still stands,” Dean says, walking around Benny to grab a chair as well before plopping himself down, “I used to assemble sheds in my sleep.”

Benny waves him off with his large hand. He wears, between his upper index and middle fingers of his right hand, like Dean, an emblem. Only with Benny’s, it’s the yellowing from years of bad habits. “You know I can’t letchu do that. This is my project. Besides, I wanna see Andrea ‘gain.”

“Is Chuck hanging that over your head?”

“No,” Benny replies, squinting against the sun despite his protective eyewear. He doesn’t have much to guard him from the sun after he shaved down his big, burly beard that made home on half of his face. “I just…” He pauses, lip twitching. “I wanna be straight when I see ‘er this time.”

Dean nods in understanding.

Well, not so much understanding. Dean’s mostly fed up with the justice system for labeling him a threat to society and making him come as far as sharing a house with seven other guys packing more testosterone than the house can fit. Benny’s seriously struggled since coming here, probably more than most of the guys. DUIs, prison, homelessness—he’s done it all, including just about every drug on the market. And the guys have their ways of sneaking in contraband, so that can’t be easy for someone who’s been trying to kick his addiction. So Chuck gave him an assignment, in hopes that it’ll help him focus his energy somewhere else. 

“Any news about your brother?”

“He’s preoccupied with work,” replies Dean. “He got busy after he represented me.”

Benny supplies him a curt nod. He knows how Benny feels about Sam, the hotshot lawyer dwelling in the city where the most crime that happens involves gum and candy wrappers, but he asks for Dean.

“I’ll let you get to back to it then, I have check-in in a few,” he says almost immediately. He stands up and stops himself before he opens the patio door. “Oh, I’m manning the groceries today. Need anything?”

“More screws, probably,” Benny replies. “These keep coming loose; I’m thinking maybe I need bigger—”

As if on cue, the two sides of the shed that are up crash into each other like a classic IKEA disaster—a sound so loud and so abrasive on his ears, it brings Dean back to his days at work.

“Oh, they’re coming loose alright,” Dean laughs all the way inside.

 

 

Check-in.

It’s not something he looks forward to every week, talking one-on-one to a guy who knows next to jack about his situation unless it’s involved a _bottle_ of Jack, but it’s mandatory in order to go through the program.

Besides, Dean doesn’t hold it against Chuck. Sure, he’s done some fucked up stuff, like revoking visitation privileges because one guy decided to go off on his girlfriend, but as far as Dean’s situation goes, it’s pretty unique, to say the least. For the most part, people either make fun of him or walk on egg shells around him.

“Alright, Dean,” Chuck says, flipping through a clipboard with some standard loose-leafs with hurried handwriting scribbled across them. “You’ve done a solid job with record keeping. You’ve been consistent signing in and out when you leave. You haven’t broken the distance in which you can travel…”

This is the part Dean hates the most. He physically cringes before Chuck even asks it.

“Is there anything else you want to talk about? Personal or otherwise?”

Maybe it’s not the way Chuck asks it, but rather what he does when says it. He takes off his gigantic glasses and sets them upside down on his desk, next to his computer, and then places his hand beneath his chin, so his arm’s resting between his head and his thigh. Chuck’s a counselor, so he has to be aware of the way he presents himself, right? It’s just a little _too_ therapist for Dean’s taste.

But, as always, Dean just smiles politely and says, “I think I’m good, Chuck. Thank you.”

“Alright. Well you know I’m always here.”

“I do. Thanks again.”

Chuck nods and slides his glasses on again before he says, “So, I know you’ve only been here for a few months, but we haven’t really established you into a course. Granted, most of the guys are here to recover from addiction, but I understand you were taking classes in Fire Science at Lawrence Penitentiary.”

Dean laughs a little, because that’s funny. The way he makes it sound anyway, like jail was college. It was a learning experience alright, and there were plenty of blackouts, but not from drinking.

And they wonder why Dean has a short temper.

“Yeah,” he settles for instead, “I was—I am.”

“What made you want to go into it? You were in construction before, right?”

“Yeah. I don’t know,” Dean says as his early childhood flashes behind his eyes like a camera set to automatic shooting. Fire and smoke and Sam and his mom. Everything that bought him the insanity plea during his trail, but he rejected it because he would’ve rather kept the truth with him all these years than a regurgitated lie.  “I just want to try something new.”

“Lieutenant Singer spoke highly of you,” Chuck says. “In his recommendation letter for the house, he said you were one of his top students. Very dedicated.”

“Yeah.”

“Mmm.”

There’s a pause between them, but unlike the one earlier, this one is made to be uncomfortable. As if Dean hasn’t played the waiting game for five years already.

“You know what, I know a guy who can help you finish that course while you’re here,” Chuck adds. “It wouldn’t be at any cost to you, of course. It’s all funded by us. You would just have to give us that same dedication you gave Bobby. Sound like a plan?”

Dean shrugs and nods. Not like he can turn an offer like that down. “Sure. Sounds good.”

“Alright,” Chuck says, standing up with a congenial smile to shake Dean’s hand with. “See you later, Dean.”

 

 

 “Extra protection?” Dean scoffs to himself as he places the toothpaste back in the carton, “What are people putting in their mouths that require them to condomize their teeth?”

What’s even more absurd is that he has to find the most disgusting flavor if someone _is_ eating his toothpaste.

Not too long after that thought, he picks up the toothpaste with the “Extra protection” label again.

That’ll do.

He decides to forgo a plastic bag for just some screws and toothpaste to donate to a fund, because apparently, it’s never too late to be a good person. He has the choice of an underfunded music program at a local high school, or a non-profit that has a few locations across the valley that helps prisoners re-enter society through various courses and counseling.

Dean chooses the underfunded music program.

He’s a few feet outside the grocers, heading back towards the home, which, conveniently, is east, so the sun blares in his eyes when he bumps into someone.

“Oh shit, sorry,” Dean curses as he scrambles to pick up his things, because living with half a dozen other dudes for a few months without relent really helps you brush up on Manners 101.

“Oh, I—um, you’re fine,” the person, who’s obviously male by that deep, raspy voice that puts Fleetwood Mac to shame, reassures, rushing to help pick up the items.

“I’m good here,” Dean replies, already bent down on the hot cement. “If you can just…”

“Right. Sorry,” the man says, following Dean’s hand as it points to the evil yellow orb in the sky, standing up to block out the sun with his frame. “Seriously, though, it was my fault. I wasn’t paying attention,” he adds.

“Distracted walking?” Dean asks as he stands up, seeing the phone in the man’s hand.

The man laughs and now that Dean can really see him, _holy shit._ “Yeah. Technology, man.”

“I… uh…”

Dean mentally curses himself. But is he really to blame, or is it the handsome guy in front of him? Seriously, he has messy brown hair, eyes that probably look darker than they actually are behind the sun but big and blue like a mail drop off box that Dean can easily see himself sliding into if it weren’t for those huge pink lips that’re curving into a cheeky smile around a five o’clock shadow.

“You’re gonna have some fun tonight,” he responds for Dean.

Dean looks between the man and what’s in his hand and laughs nervously when he realizes, “Oh. Yeah, no, this is is…” He scratches his rapidly reddening neck with his unoccupied hand. “I… I don’t have a good quip. This really is a weird combination of items.”

The man nods, smile not faltering as he lends out his hand, “Castiel, Cas for short. And that’s my specialty: Making men speechless. Hopefully in a good way.”

It’s Dean’s turn to laugh as he accepts Cas’s hand. “Dean. And I’d say you succeeded.”

Cas blushes. “So, what’re you really doing with those items?” Cas’s mouth drops at his own words, and sooner than later, he’s sucking them back in like a busted vacuum, “Sorry, that was a personal question. You don’t have to answer that.”

“I mean, unless I actually am planning on doing something _really_ crazy,” Dean chuckles. “I, um, the toothpaste is for me and the screws are for a very frustrated Louisianan.”

Cas nods. “Fair enough. I’m actually going in to shop food for my niece Claire’s seventh birthday. It’s a big thing. She loves being the star of the show.”

“Why didn’t you just hire a catering service?”

“I _am_ the catering service,” Cas says, cringing a little as he admits that. “I may have told my family that I’m an amazing cook, and after those homemade brownies last year, they believe me.”

“And the homemade brownies—”

“Freshly made in the home of the store,” Cas confirms, to which Dean bites back a smile. “What? I technically wasn’t lying. I never said _I_ made them homemade, I just said they _are_ homemade.”

“Fair enough,” Dean repeats, to which Cas’s blush only grows wider, and man, he’s absolutely glowing like that alone, but with the way the sun is hitting him from behind, he’s glowing like an _angel._

There are a few awkward chuckles exchanged, and then Cas asks, “Are you doing anything tomorrow, Dean?”

“I… um, no. No just…” _Listening to a bunch of other dudes complain for hours on end and possibly witnessing the assembly of a storage shed, if all goes well._ “Hanging out.”

“Cool,” Cas says, biting his lip as well to keep another smile from spilling overboard, “Maybe you’d wanna grab a bite with me Ferguson’s? I know we just met, but I’m new to town from a work transfer, and I could use some company. And I overheard some of my new coworkers raving about the place.”

Ferguson’s. That’s within his range. And there no rules against going out… as friends, obviously. (Even and especially if those newfound friends are very attractive.) As long as alcohol isn’t involved, it’s actually encouraged for recovery, to get out in the real world again. So, “Sure, why not?”

“Perfect. Seven work for you?”

“Seven is perfect,” Dean confirms, returning the same grin plastered on Cas’s face. “Um… see you there.”

“Oh, I can pick you up if you don’t have any means of transportation—”

“No,” Dean says a little too firmly for his taste. “I mean, uh, I’m good with meeting you there. I walk everywhere. Helps me burn some calories. Although, I should probably invest in a pair of sunglasses.”

Luckily, Cas laughs, “Agreed. See you there, then.”

“S-see you…” Dean barely gets out before Cas is walking into the store.

 

 

 “You _what?!”_ Benny roars, nearly losing his grip on the power drill. Dean lurches forward and grabs the base.

“I just saved your life,” Dean sterns, “so keep your voice _down_ or I _will_ drop this.”

Benny looks at him with narrowed eyes—skeptical, but not disbelieving. Borderline doubt. “You wouldn’t.”

“Benny, are you forgetting that I nearly strangled a man to death with my bare hands?”

Benny rolls his eyes. “Okay, okay, no need t’get feisty. Jesus, this guy must be Daniel fuckin’ Craig.”

“Even better.”

“He’s actually 007?”

“What? No,” Dean laughs, “and he’s _much_ higher than a seven. And those double o’s…”

“Okay, TMI,” Benny says, bending down for one of the screws in Dean’s cupped hand, “so when’s the date?”

“Tomorrow night.”

“You know curfew’s at 10 on the weekends, right? At least for us that actually _have_ privilege.”

Dean nods. He would fiddle with his hands if he could, but that would just give him away. “I don’t know, I just… I know it doesn’t have to be serious or anything, but he’s nice. Like, Alice Cooper Mr. Nice.” 

Benny stops what he’s doing to lift his eyewear over his head and look at Dean. “Oh my God,” he says, “you are _so_ screwed.”

“Wish I could say the same for—”

Dean’s comment is cut short by the sound of the drill coming to a complete rotation. Both he and Benny gape at the sight in front of him before the latter man scoffs, “Looks like you’re on a one-man boat there, Chief.”

 

 

Dean looks into the fridge with a grimace. He probably should’ve spent a little more time in the store, because they’re seriously low on food. That’s what happens living in a house with mostly recovering drug addicts: the munchies are strong. But he can get crafty. While Dean’s not much of a culinary guy outside of knowing how to grill a mean burger, he’s familiar with being low on supplies. He’ll make the best of it.

Like when he sees half a stick of butter, a pack of cheddar cheese, and a loaf of bread, he thinks grilled cheese.

Fucking genius.

He sets his ingredients to the side in favor of taking out a pan and turning on the burner. Cooking with gas is a bit different than electric, but on the bright side, it doesn’t take nearly as long to heat up, so when he sees the butter start to sizzle, he places everything there.

Chuck walks into the kitchen shortly thereafter (those goddamn converse), angling for the same thing. “Looks like I should’ve sent you on a larger grocery run.”

Dean just hums in agreeance as he watches the pan and the intermittent blue flames that envelope it. Though the owner seems to take interest in him over the other guys, he and Chuck don’t talk much outside of check-ins. Chuck has good intentions, but the execution is all off. With the way he plays God with everyone else, Dean just thinks he’s tiptoeing around him to avoid any possible confrontation. Chuck’s a pretty small guy, and Dean’s already proven he can take down the biggest and meanest of guys.

Although, on occasion: “Hey, Chuck, have you heard anything from Sam?”

Chuck walks next to Dean, obviously forgetting what he’s going over there for. Dean sees the apple in Chuck’s hand and reminds him it’s in the drawer directly below him.

Chuck laughs, albeit nervously, then waits until he’s positioned the slicer over the apple to say, “Um… you know, I haven’t. I reached out to him to let him know you were transferred here, though, so maybe—”

“Thanks, Chuck,” Dean says flatly, flipping his burnt grilled cheese before sliding it onto a paper plate, “I really appreciate it.”

 

 

Dean heads out a little after quarter to seven, not wanting to seem too eager.

He hasn’t been to Ferguson’s in years, but he still remembers their Hell-Fire Burger—a slightly charred, slightly juicy piece of sirloin with a hint of alder wood from the grill. Dean’s actually taken inspiration from the place with his homemade burgers from the owner, Crowley, who he became alright friends with.

But the burgers aren’t all he’s eager for. This is his first date in… well, in five years. Maybe even longer. Most of Dean’s “dates” start and end on someone else’s mattress. But Dean wasn’t kidding earlier: Cas is a nice guy. Even if this is their only (not) date, it’ll be an opportunity to get to know someone new, and maybe even show them around town—within his limits, of course. Cas said he’s new to town. Dean’s lived here his whole life. Although it’s not a beautiful, ancient city like Rome, there are still some interesting sights to see.

Dean drinks in the restaurant before him. Again, the town isn’t Rome, but this place is probably the closest it comes to it. It’s old-fashioned, much like the way they cook their burgers. It’s a brick structure, which, due to the unpredictability of the weather, has faded over time, but still keeps the place standing, and is illuminated inside and out entirely by candlelight. And if everything is exactly the same as it is outside, then Mildred Baker is still performing live music from the Patsy Cline collection inside.

Dean has to admit, he feels a bit uncomfortable, standing out in the open like this. Sure, he’s been out for a while now, but to be out amongst the socialites again, as if he never left, is sort of surreal. Prison really screws you over, to say the least. On one hand, after you get released, you feel on top of the world. Free—finally. But on the other, you feel trapped. Out of place. Lonely.

Luckily, Cas fixes that as Dean sees him approaching. He puts on a smile, but he doesn’t have to fake much when Cas returns the gesture. His smile is gorgeous. Untethered, unrestrained. A little bit of his gums even poke out as he does so. It’s amazing how he’s still single.

“Hello, Dean,” he says.

“Cas.” Dean rakes in his attire. When he met him, Cas was wearing a plain black t-shirt and jeans. Now, he’s dawning a three-piece suit with a blue tie to match his eyes, complete with suede shoes and a large, tan trenchcoat that screams runway. Or, in Dean’s case, run _away,_ because “You look… amazing.”

Cas ducks his head before he looks up and replies shyly, “Thank you. And you look like a million dollars.”

Dean’s just wearing a blazer over an old ACDC shirt with his nicest jeans and boots, but “Thanks.” He pauses awkwardly, and before a blush can completely smother his face, asks: “You wanna head inside?”

“Lead the way.”

 

 

“You’re serious?!”

“I wish I wasn’t,” Cas laughs. “My first day at the hospital, she came up to me, sucking on this giant red lollipop, and asked me a few provocative questions that left me just gaping in horror. Then I guess that gave her the perfect opportunity to put the lollipop in _my_ mouth before she sauntered off down the hall. The other nurses were laughing their asses off. I was _petrified._ ”

Dean shakes his head with a scoff, “I would be too. What did you do?”

“I asked to be moved to pediatrics,” Cas replies. “At least there, I knew she couldn’t try anything weird—which is alright with me, because that’s what I’m working my way up to when I become a doctor, being a pediatrician, so it all worked out in the end.”

“Jesus. I can’t imagine.”

Cas laughs softly as they approach an alleyway sandwiched between the restaurant and another building. Dinner was just as Dean had remembered it—and even better, now that he had someone to share it with. Cas agreed, and that’s when Dean found out that Cas loved burgers too, because he made a moan at the first bite that had heads turning in part confusion, part disgust.

The conversation was good too, and continues to be good outside the restaurant.

That is, until Cas glances around him and latches onto Dean’s shirt, tugging him into the alleyway, out of sight of passerbyers. Dean doesn’t mean for his voice to get caught in his throat, but the way Cas is leaning into him, about to do what everyone watching any chick-flick knows and has been waiting for him to do—

“Cas,” Dean says, and that’s all it takes for Cas to start moving back.

“You’re right,” Cas says, laughing nervously as he looks at the grimy ground, “I’m moving a hundred miles an hour with this. We just met, and I—”

“No, it’s not that. Believe me…” Dean pauses, itching to touch Cas the same way he has him to reassure him, so he settles for hovering just over his arms. “I like you. Like, a lot. You’re funny and nice and gorgeous…”

“Are you going to throw the ‘it’s not you, it’s me’ speech at me?”

“No… no. It’s just…”

Cas’s face settles into worry across his eyebrows as he leans back. “Dean?” he says, and then adds jokingly: “What, are you a serial killer or something?”

“Not exactly,” Dean replies. “But I, um… I have a record. I’m actually on parole right now.”

Cas’s lighthearted expression wavers a little as his eyebrows lift with his flaring eyes. “What were you in for?”

Dean takes a deep breath.

He hasn’t been this nervous since he called up his brother and told him why he was in jail, which was hard enough. Outside of Sam and Jo, Dean has no immediate family, and with Dean being the oldest of both of them, it makes the pressure greater for being the protector of them all. And obviously, everyone else who’s in for something or walks him through a triple-bolted door knows his record.

“Aggravated assault.” He pauses, looking down for reassurance then back up again, because he wants to look Cas in the eyes, Goddamnit. “I have a cousin. She was, um… she was raped. And I couldn’t let that slide, so I…” Another pause. Dean sniffs. “But I haven’t had a history of violence. I mean, I still get angry, but… and I know it probably doesn’t make a difference, because a record is a record…”

“Wow.” Cas nods with a short, humorless laugh. “That’s a lot to process.”

Dean can’t detect what’s in Cas’s eyes. It’s something he can’t quite decipher and he’s not sure why. “Are you afraid of me?” he asks.

There’s another pause, but in that time, Cas shakes his head and looks up at him, and that’s when Dean realizes: It’s sympathy. And the reason why he couldn’t detect it is because he’d never been shown it before. “Is it okay if I kiss you?”

Dean blinks a few times in surprise. Then glances down at Cas’s lips and somehow finds the strength to nod.

Needless to say, the words “out of place” and “lonely” are erased from his dictionary that night.

(“Trapped” remains because of his state of being trapped between Cas’s body and the wall behind him.)

***

“Dean? Dean.”

Dean snaps back to reality by the grace of God—or Chuck. “Hmm? Yeah,” he says, shifting in his seat, “I’m here. What’s up?”

“Is there anything else you want to talk about? Personal or otherwise?”

Dean shakes his head, unable to keep a smile from pulling at his face. “No. I’m pretty good, actually.”

“Really?” Chuck presses like gauze on a fresh wound. “Do you know why you have an early check-in?”

“Not a clue.”

“Because you didn’t clock out yesterday night.”

Dean licks his lips. “Well, that’s because I didn’t go anywhere.”

“Is there any reason why you’re smiling then?”

“I told you,” Dean says, full-on grinning now, “I’m just doing good. This program is really helping.”

Chuck’s eyebrows pinch together. “Are you… high?”

“I haven’t been high since ‘99—which was _before_ my incarceration, for your notes there. And it was a one-time thing. So no need to add anything else to my record.”

Chuck nods and does the infamous move with his glasses as he leans forward. “Dean,” he says, mustering a small smile, “I want to keep you here. You’re one of the best residents I’ve ever had, in fact. But you have to be honest with me or whatever’s going on between you and this other person…”

Dean’s mouth parts. “How did you know?”

“You’re not exactly discreet in a house full of guys,” Chuck says with a small laugh as he slides his glasses back on, “the whole upper floor reeked of cologne. They were all yapping like ill-trained show dogs. Plus, there was a Continental outside the night before. They must’ve waited until you got inside safe.”

Dean scoffs. Bastards. It’s smelt worse when they’ve snuck in weed, but they hate the smell of fougere. Figures. But, the thing about Cas waiting is sweet and replenishes Dean’s smile. “So you’re not mad? You guys don’t crack down on dating?”

“It’s absolutely fine. It’s not recommended during recovery—in your case, it’s mostly re-entry into society—but it’s fine. Just inform me before you leave next time.”

Dean nods. “Got it. Am I free to go?”

“Until next week,” Chuck says as more of a clarification than a statement. “Bye, Dean.”

 

 

Dean heads back up the stairs to his room. Usually, he’d just catch up on some sleep, but today he’s feeling motivated today. It’d be nice to finish _The Call of Cthulhu_. Maybe even start writing something of his own. Dean has had this idea about these two brothers who travel cross country, fighting monsters—

“Oh look, it’s Daddy’s favorite son.”

Dean doesn’t have to turn around to know who’s standing behind him. He stops short of his door. “Victor.”

“Heard you went out last night.”

Dean doesn’t answer.

“Well,” he says, and then follows with a condescending, slightly raised voice, “did you have a nice time?”

Dean takes a deep breath and continues on with his protest for silence. He hasn’t turned around yet, but he knows he must be absolutely blowing Victor’s mind. And everyone else’s for that matter, as they start opening their doors to see what’s going down.

“Hey! Psycho! I’m talking to you!”

Before he can count to ten or whatever other bullshit, Dean feels a strong hand on the back of his head and then he’s slammed into his door face-first.

Gasps all around as Dean stumbles back, clutching his bleeding nose.

“You think you’re better than us? Huh?” Victor continues, “You’re fucking _crazy._ You nearly killed a guy! Tell me, did it feel good, beating the life out of him? Did you feel like a hero?”

That does it for Dean. He turns around and lunges for Victor, but before he can full-on attack him, a different hand is pulling him back.

“Dean! Dean!” When they say blind rage, they really mean blind rage, because Dean can’t make out who’s in front of him (but maybe that’s from the head injury he’s sustaining), but he recognizes Benny’s voice. Both his large hands wrap around Dean’s shoulders, his grip tight enough to pull him back. “He’s not worth it.”

It takes Dean a second, but he nods as best he can with a head spinning like a NASCAR track.

Collective groaning as the peanut gallery heads back into their respective rooms, including Crowned King Peanut, Victor, but not without a “Fucking asshole” thrown in the mix.

Benny chuckles as he helps Dean down the stairs with one arm around his shoulder. Dean throws his head to him and realizes quickly with the pain shooting up his neck what a mistake that is. “What?”

“Nothing,” he says. “It’s just… I just saved your life.”

***

After his firefighter course with his new trainer, Frank Devereaux, who just might be the definition of crazy Victor mistakes for Dean if he ever did see it, followed by his new hour long anger management class, Dean gets permission to head to the store. But not for groceries.

He’s nervous, gripping the larkspurs tighter in his hand as he heads back outside. Dean’s not flower savvy, but the lady in the floral section told him larkspurs, the ones tinted a whitish hue, signify happiness.

That and they match Cas’s eyes.

The hospital’s about a mile away, and he reaches the front doors a little after noon, catching his breath, because he’s definitely out of shape, which isn’t good, considering his physical coming up.

“Pediatrics,” he says to the woman at the front desk, who’s sucking on a red lollipop. Her nametag reads Meg. “I’m looking for Castiel Novak. Nurse Novak.”

The girl sucks on her candy for some time, then shrugs and says, “You’re cute. Third floor. Down the hall and to the right. You can’t miss him, he’s gorgeous.”

“Believe me, I know,” Dean says. “Thank you.”

Meg is right, but she’s missing one thing: He’s also super nice. When Dean follows the coordinates that lead to Cas, he sees him bent down in his scrubs, talking to a little Asian boy around seven years old.

“Alright, Kevin, no more gummy bears up your nose, capiche? Not that I don’t love to see you, but I’d love it even better to see you when you’re breathing.”

The boy, Kevin, nods. Cas ruffles his hair before he scurries off to his mom.

Then Cas turns around and the smile that graces his face could provide enough light for the whole sec. “Dean.”

“Cas,” Dean greets with a laugh. He steps closer, nervously thrusting out the larkspurs. “These are, um…”

“Oh, right,” Cas says after a good moment of just staring at Dean, accepting the flowers. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” Dean replies, smiling shyly.

“What’re you doing here?” Cas hesitates, and it’s the cutest thing, because Cas obviously knows what to say to his patients, but when it comes to Dean, he seems to lose all of his expertise. “I mean, not that I’m not happy to see you. I just wasn’t _expecting_ to see you.”

Dean rubs the back of his neck. “Yeah, I wanted to surprise you.”

“Job well done,” Cas laughs. Then his eyebrows are tapering as he takes a closer look at Dean’s face. “Are you okay? Your nose—”

“Yeah, yeah, I just… someone had a little disagreement in the house.”

“Shit.”

“Yeah,” Dean repeats, and though it’s not an easy confession, Dean finds himself feeling lighter again (not to be misinterpreted as light _headedness_ this time) because Cas didn’t ask if he engaged in the fight. He trusts that Dean didn’t fight back, or at least if he wanted to, he pulled back.

_He trusts him._

“You’re amazing,” is what comes out of his mouth next. “With the kids, I mean.”

Cas blushes. “Thanks. I try.”

There’s a pause between them, then Dean says, “Well, I better let you go, I’m sure you’re busy.”

“Yeah,” Cas says with a hint of disappointment in his tone, “yeah, we’re swamped today.”

“Are you busy tomorrow night?” Dean nearly blurts. Cas laughs and shakes his head.

“Not at all. I get off at 5.”

Dean nods and slowly works his way up to forming words again, “Perfect. Cool. I can meet you outside and we can go out for dinner again. But… there is one thing.”

Cas tilts his head. “What?”

“You have to let me show you around town,” Dean says. “You need to be properly introduced to this place.”

Cas’s full, gummy smile emerges and he says, “Deal.”

“Cool,” Dean replies. “Alright. Um… I’ll just—”

Before Dean can awkwardly back away, Cas leans forward and presses a close-mouthed, but lingering kiss to his lips, careful not to bump Dean’s nose. Honestly, Dean wouldn’t even care. No pain, no gain.

“See you then,” Cas finishes, hand falling from Dean’s chest as he starts to walk in the opposite direction.

Dean prays for tomorrow night to hurry the fuck up.

***

 


	2. Justice in the First-Degree

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Is this okay?” he asks, refusing to tighten his grip despite the sensations happening below him until Cas says—
> 
> “Yes, 100 percent, absolutely."

“How do you know all this?” Dean asks, shrugging a little in the oversized blazer. He feels like a human voodoo doll with all the bobby pins sticking out of him. And Dean’s a pretty big guy. “I’ll tell you one thing though; you’re a valuable asset on the market. You know, if you were still on the market. A baker _and_ a fashion designer. I mean, buddy.”

Benny’s next to him with one bobby pin in his mouth and another in his hand—itching to jab Dean a couple more times, apparently—when his face curves into a plaintive smile, the kind Dean’s used to seeing in the mirror like the one he’s in front of now. He takes out the pin to say, “I have a daughter.”

Dean tries not to let his mouth part too wide, but now it makes sense—the reason why Benny’s fighting so hard to stay clean: Andrea’s not just his girlfriend; she’s the mother of their child. “What’s her name?”

“Elizabeth. She’ll be six in October,” he replies. There’s a moment’s hesitation as they both process that, then Benny adds: “My life changed when she entered it, Dean.”

“I know,” Dean answers, meeting Benny’s eyes in the mirror. Once they’ve been met, Dean looks down and shakes his head as Benny resumes his task, threading another bobby pin into the right cuff. “It’s crazy. How fast time goes when you’re out. I don’t, um… I don’t have a kid, but I know in the pen, it was slower. I remember counting the seconds. It’s probably the only thing that kept me sane. There was more, I don’t know… control… on the inside. Sometimes everything just seems overwhelming out here, you know?”

“Hey, don’t be gettin’ all soft on me, now,” Benny says, despite the slight frown etched on his face.

Dean scoffs, “You’re an idiot. Where’s the last one go?”

“Right… here,” Benny says, threading the last bobby pin through the left floppy cuff.

Benny steps back to let Dean admire his work, and _wow,_ he actually did really well. The pins aren’t really noticeable, and they do a good job at pulling in the extra space where Benny’s frame would be. It’s a lot nicer blazer than the one Dean owns. It’s navy blue with a front pocket for an overpriced handkerchief with a black silk backing. Underneath that is a plain white t-shirt over black jeans suspended by a tan brown belt.

Of course, the look can’t be completed without a piece from Dean’s own collection he calls guilt: “Benny, visitation is tonight, are you sure you don’t want your—?”

“Dean, I _will_ give you a face lift with these bobby pins if you don’t quit flappin’ your jaw.”

“Noted,” Dean replies, taking a breath. Not because of the threat, but because: “I like him a lot.”

Benny grabs his shoulders like he did two nights ago and faces Dean in the mirror again as he says, “Then don’t let him go. And for God’s sake, don’t use so much cologne, you smell like a high school locker room.”

 

 

Dean wants to make another stop at the store for Cas, but finds flowers repetitive.

But if he gets him something else, like, say, a box of chocolates, then it might be contradicting, granted part of Cas’s job is to help people manage their sugar intake—especially children, since American kids pose the highest risk for early onset diabetes—and Cas might get offended, so he just heads straight to the hospital.

Dean Winchester: Professional Worrier.

This is ridiculous. Dean digs Cas and Cas digs Dean and—

And so does the guy approaching Cas on the northeast end of the building.

Dean ducks behind one of the few cars in the parking lot—a Chevy Silverado that’s seen its fair share of sunny days—and looks out from behind the truck bed. He doesn’t recognize the guy, but it doesn’t take a strong prescription to tell the guy is furious, by his raised shoulders and the terseness of his arms that he brings down like a whip when he talks. They’re just talking, but the other man is really close to Cas, yelling something about his daughter.

He can’t hear what Cas is saying, but it’s obviously not what the guy wanted to hear, because his chest puffs out and he shifts in his stance and Dean sees something in back pocket glint under the overhead lights.

_Don’t let him go._

Dean nearly hits the ground as he sprints towards Cas.

Both men turn with wide eyes when Dean lunges for the guy. He pins him against the wall with a bone-cracking _thud_ , but Father of the Year doesn’t stop there. He uses Dean’s frame to his advantage, kneeing him in the abdomen. Dean stumbles back as the guy stumbles forward, kicking Dean in the chest with the flat of his boot. Dean hits the ground, and before he can catch his breath, the guy has his foot on Dean’s neck. He pulls out his knife and holds it out in front Dean.

“You’re next if you don’t—”

The man’s threat gets interrupted by Cas’s fist against his jaw.

Asshole lands sideways on the concrete, to which Cas looks at Dean and laughs a little, despite shaking the pain from his newly bruised hand, then—

“No!” Dean yells.

The guy re-enters his line of slightly blurred vision with his knife thrust out, hurdling towards Cas.

Like a rag doll, Dean manages to find the strength to throw himself at the guy one last time.

He knocks both the guy and his knife over, to his relief, and the way Dean landed on top of him must have caused him to pass out, so Dean picks himself up with a groan. Mirroring Cas’s action, laughs a little, despite his breathy windedness.

That is, before he sees Cas clutching his left rib with both hands.

“Cas?! Are you—?”

Cas lifts his fingers to reveal, to the surprise of both of them, a gnarly tear in his scrubs.

Dean respires, but Cas still paints a worried expression after checking the guy’s pulse (unfortunately, he’s still alive). “What’s wrong? I mean, you know, aside from all that bullshit a second ago.”

“Dean,” he says, looking from the passed out trespasser and back to Dean, “did I…?”

Dean shakes his head, confused, but when he looks down at his hands and sees his knuckles streaked with his own blood, he understands. “No,” he reassures, “no, Cas, look, it was my choice. I acted out of defense. So did you. We’re both just—”

“A couple of dumbasses?” he finishes, scoffing through a shaky laugh.

Dean cracks a small smile of his own. “I prefer the word trusting. Less dumb, less ass.”

“What do we do now?” Cas asks, stepping closer to him.

Cas’s blues must be like a blow dryer or something, blowing hot air on his lips, where they rest, because Dean licks his lips before he does the same thing. “I mean… I could still give you a tour of the place.”

“Or I could give you a tour of _my_ place.”

“Done.”

 

 

They barely make it in the door before Cas pushes Dean onto the kitchen table.

For someone who has a history of doing the manhandling, Dean finds he doesn’t mind it too much himself as Cas licks hurried kisses from his jawline to his collarbone. Dean arcs back into the goosebumps that massage his spine, giving Cas access to more skin.

That’s when Dean holds out his hands, which look like the aftermath of a rainbow canvas art gone wrong because only the red crayons would run down the canvas.

They’ve caused a lot of damage—and the last thing he wants to do is hurt Cas. But when Cas’s mouth hovers over directly Dean’s crotch with warm and far from bated breath, Dean finds home for them in Cas’s hair. “Is this okay?” he asks, refusing to tighten his grip despite the sensations happening below him until Cas says—

“Yes, 100 percent, absolutely.”

Dean’s laugh breaks in his throat when Cas grabs the buckle of Dean’s belt and asks the same of Dean.

“Jesus Christ, yes,” he moans, then Cas is undoing Dean’s belt and shrugging his pants over his knees, leaving Dean’s hardness to be masked only by the fabric of his briefs.

Then Cas dives in, and that’s when Dean has to hold on for the ride, because he doesn’t even wait to slide the last piece of clothing off before Cas is mouthing around him.

Dean’s man enough to admit that, _yeah,_ he’s whimpering, and how can he not with the moonshine spilling through the blinds, decorating Cas in light like a fucking deity, and him teasing Dean the way he is.

Cas is about to take it a step further with needy hands reaching for Dean’s waistband, but Dean finds the willpower to gently tug Cas’s face up towards his, which reveal Cas’s lust-blown eyes, dark like an early lunar eclipse, and what Dean’s certain are his, too.

Sensing his need with emptiness weighing heavy on Dean’s mouth, Cas leans down the rest of the way to reseal their lips. Dean immediately assimilates into his dominance, moving both hands from Cas’s head of messy hair to cup his cheeks and kiss him deeper. Cas goes lithe on top of him despite his own hardness Dean can feel pressed against him, mesmerized by Dean’s mouth. It gives Dean the perfect opportunity to shrug off his pants the rest of the way as well as his borrowed blazer and flip their positions so Dean’s on top.

Dean repeats the same actions, leaving Cas to produce the same noises. The only difference is he stops just before Cas’s collarbone to move his hands to the small of Cas’s back and hauls them both forward, so that Cas is wrapped around Dean’s waist. Dean, as achingly hard as he is now, asks in a soft whisper into Cas’s neck, almost nothing more than a puff of air, where the bedroom is.

 

 

Cas looks at Dean from his place, naked, against the bedframe with bent knees.

Dean is on his knees across from him, also naked.

They don’t say anything for a long moment, just rake in the other’s form. Their gazes aren’t hungry anymore so much as they are spellbound. Understandably so—from Dean’s perspective, anyway. Cas is gorgeous. His long, tanned figure is only surpassed by his extremities. Big, bulging arms and strong thighs give structure to legs that are long two-way river to a large bank up ahead with plenty of soft, wet grass to lie on.

Dean inches forward carefully. Then he wraps his hands around Cas’s ankles and looks up at him again. Cas nods before Dean starts to slowly slide his hands up his legs, testing the waters.

Underneath the calloused pads of Dean’s fingers, he feels the goosebumps against Cas’s own skin and over his abdomen, stomach, and finally his chest.

Dean drops his hands and sits back up. Cas shifts on his knees too and reaches around a little to rest his hands on Dean’s calves.

He looks back up and Dean smiles and nods as confirmation, then Cas runs his hands from Dean’s calves to the backs of his thighs, over his bottom, and slides around the creases where Dean’s hips meet his waist and follow up to his abdomen, chest, and over his shoulders, where he rests.

Dean cups Cas’s face again and leans in, bodies centimeters apart but resting on Cas’s lips.

***

The door opens after what feels like ages of sitting in his lonesome.

Dean glances in the direction of the balding detective and notices his right hand deprived of coffee.

“So you’re the bad cop,” he says, bobbing his head with a wry smirk.

The detective takes a seat across from him and puts more wrinkles in his face when he asks, “Do you know why you’re here?”

Dean leans forward, testing. “Not a clue. You tell me, Kojak.”

The detective scoffs and pushes something towards him across the metal table. Dean looks down and recognizes it as the Code of Conduct form he signed when he first stepped foot into the halfway house. Highlighted is the section about the distance in which he can travel.

“An eyewitness placed you at Saint Pete’s Hospital around 6pm last night—three feet outside your limit,” the detective says. When Dean doesn’t say anything, he continues: “We have it on security, too, but the person who saw you told us everything. Confessed to trying to kill both you and the man you were with, but—”

“But I’m still screwed,” Dean finishes with a scoff of his own as he shakes his head.

“What if I said you don’t have to be?”

“And why should I believe you?” Dean presses. “Do you know how many smarmy detectives I’ve seen in the past five years with the same zilch offer?”

The detective nods. “You drive home a fair point. Perhaps you’d have more faith in my partner.”

A second figure enters the room. Dean turns around and sees another man in a suit facing Dean with a smile.

“My name is Samuel Campbell,” the detective says, “And you know your brother, I presume.”

“Sammy?” Dean breathes, laughing. It’s been almost six years, but his brother still looks the same: hazel eyes like a puppy working you over for a bone (which helps make him a great lawyer), long, brown hair that nearly touches his shoulders, and sideburns better fit for the King of Rock and Roll, and he’s probably a couple inches taller, even, which is crazy, because he already towers over Dean. “What’re you doing here?”

Sam drops his head and smiles wider as he looks from Detective Campbell and back to his older brother. “We’re getting you out of here. For good, this time.”

 


End file.
